


I Saw Blood (And A Bit Of It Was Mine)

by th_esaurus



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Fucked Up, Gore, Multi, Murder Family, sex & death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-03
Updated: 2013-06-03
Packaged: 2017-12-13 21:32:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/829108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/th_esaurus/pseuds/th_esaurus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She had asked him, one hand gripping the knife and the other clutching Hannibal's steady fingers, how much he thought about killing.</p>
<p>She had asked him whether he thought about it enough to join them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Saw Blood (And A Bit Of It Was Mine)

_She had asked him, in the early days, how much he thought about killing. Will Graham had answered, as was expected of him: "Too often."_

 

_Hannibal had said nothing at all._

 

*

 

He'd lay down on the chaise as a self-referential joke, but it was comfortable here, and he was sleeping badly. Abigail was up on the balcony, her straw-slim legs dangling over the edge, ostensibly reading one of Hannibal's meaty books but, more likely, also eavesdropping. Hannibal was at his desk, pointedly not psychoanalysing Will's darkest desires. In fact, he was cleaning up notes from a previous session. Very banal.

 

The lack of pressure was pleasant. One of the towering windows was open against the encroaching spring heat, and the cool air just reached Will's brow and his open collar. 

 

He closed his eyes. Like a feral cat, he often only shut his eyes when he was alone. It was both a trust issue, around other people he had little faith in, and the fact that he saw death on the backs of his eyelids.

 

But, Will closed his eyes now.

 

There was something strange, when he tried to imagine Hannibal killing Tobias Budge in this room, like a VHS watched back too many times, pivotal parts scrubbed through and faded. He could feel the weight of the weapon in his hands, that statue of the brooding elk Hannibal kept in his office which had fallen, struck the killing blow; but he couldn't tell whether Tobias was already dead. 

 

"Are you thinking about death?" Abigail's voice came.

 

Will did not immediately surface from his blurry reverie. It was guilting and warm, like a bath run for someone else, to be inside Hannibal's mind. He murmured assent.

 

"You get REM, when you're thinking about it," she carried on lightly, and he heard her bare feet on the balcony, on the ladder. "But your breathing's not even. Not like when you're asleep."

 

He would've liked to be able to ask how she knew.

 

It would have been a trite sort of question. She knew better than he did; Hannibal too. His out-of-body experiences didn't extend to watching his own slumber, and the two of them had seen plenty of that. He slept better between them, and better still when they both smelled of blood.

 

*

 

_She had asked him, with her hands stained and dripping and her mouth red where the blood had spurted up, how much he thought about killing. Will gripped her slick wrists, and Hannibal took out his pocket handkerchief and wiped the mess from her lips, kissed her when he was done._

_Will Graham had answered, "So often."_

 

*

 

He threw the question back at her, because he already knew. Of course she was thinking about death; she was like Hannibal, and she was like him. She had a contrary streak in her that held her tongue, though Hannibal was trying to break her of it, since it was this flaw that made Alana suspicious and Jack suspect. 

 

"Answer the question, Abigail," Hannibal prompted gently, from a distance. "Tell Will how much you think about killing him."

 

"Wouldn't you want to kill the man who shot your Dad?" She replied, with no great venom. Still, Will couldn't bring himself to agree.  

 

His eyes had been closed so long now that he started piecing together the evidence of the present: the sounds of Abigail hovering around him, her hand on the tall back of the chaise, the scratch of Hannibal's pen (fountain pen, real ink, of course) against good quality paper, the breeze tapping on the window now and then like an eavesdropper. Will had always quirked his lips in a smile at that phrase,  _mind's eye._ The evidence was all there, why should he need his sight to see it?

 

*

_She had asked him how much he thought about killing._

_Will Graham had gripped her hips and pulled her against him and wondered how she could say such a thing when she was beating her orgasm into his very skin._

_Hannibal had coaxed them both through it and answered for him._

_*_

Abigail straddled him, and Hannibal tutted, perhaps because she was so often indulged, or perhaps because it was the middle of the day and he thought it uncouth. Will kept his eyes shut and stroked the hem of her dress. He could see the colour of it as he ran his hands over the stitching, knew how far up her thighs it was shucked. "Can I--?" she asked, and Hannibal clucked again at her lack of confidence.

 

Will had lied for her, but he couldn't ever lie to her. 

 

He helped her with his fly, helped her get both hands around his prick. Will never instigated, but he got hard for her so easily, with such little effort on her part. He had a natural tremor when he was hard, and his hands were flighty on her body, and neither of them wanted to let the other go so he hooked her knickers in his shaking thumb and pulled them aside to make do.

 

Hannibal, across the room, closed his book. 

 

Abigail made the same high noise, when she took Will inside her, as she had when her father had slit her throat. Every time Will had fantasised about it. 

 

He couldn't make her feel good with his hands, they were too unsettled, too unsteady against her skin and hair, and Hannibal stood behind the chaise and gripped Will's trembling arms in his deft fingers; held them against the leather. It gave Abigail the freedom to move how she wanted, rut how she liked, and after even the slightest time, every roll of her hips made Will feel like he might die. It's a problem he'd had before, though not often. Only with a few people. Only Abigail had held him after and not judged him, and only Hannibal had said to him, an eyebrow delicately raised, "How else should you expect to feel?"

 

Hannibal kissed him, from above. It was three parts a kiss and one part a subtle suffocation. He was pinned by his hips and his hands and his mouth, and it was okay. Will felt like he was going to die, and it was okay.

 

Abigail kneaded her knuckles against his chest like it was made of dough.

 

And then she pressed her bitten nails against the skin above his heart, and tore in. 

 

*

 

_She had asked him, one hand gripping the knife and the other clutching Hannibal's steady fingers, how much he thought about killing._

_She had asked him whether he thought about it enough to join them._

_*_

Like jelly, his blood oozed rather than gushed. The wound in Will's chest was like torn fabric, frayed muscle and sinew, and Abigail rode him and cried out and clawed at his body with no skill, none of her hunting instinct, just desperation. Hannibal shushed her gently. Will was burbling below him, and it was Abigail he shushed. 

 

Hannibal spared a kiss for Will, at least; swallowed a little of the blood pooled in his mouth.

 

He helped her pull apart Will's ribs. She was not strong enough to crack them entirely, but Hannibal could snap two in one hand, and tossed them aside like dogmeat. 

 

Abigail thrust herself down on him, deep enough to make her sob, and writhed there, writhed from her hips, and laid her head against Will's ruined chest. There was space enough for her cheek to sit right against his heart, and her breath made his lungs rise and fall, and her hair tangled into the cartilage and became his veins, and Will came. 

 

Will came, or died, or both.

 

*

 

_Hannibal had asked her how much she thought about killing._

_"All the time," she'd said simply._

_*_

Will opened his eyes, and everything was awful and vivid. The soft afternoon light stung him, and Abigail's hair seemed like an abyss, and the pattern of Hannibal's waistcoat filled him with nausea. Hannibal was carding his fingers through Will's sweat-ridden hair, soothing, and even that gentle touch felt like earthquakes.

 

He had come inside Abigail, and perhaps she had reached her peak at the same point, because she was calmer now, quieter, laying on his chest. There was an old scar there, on the meat of his torso, from when he'd been stabbed on the job. But nothing else.

 

He had been thinking about death.

 

Just thinking about it.

 

He always did.

 

_  
_   



End file.
